Very, very drafty
You wipe down each table.
Wipe the seat and back of each chair
and then turn it legs in the air,
rest it for the night on the tabletop,
branches on a tree. You make
a forest of clean counters, coffee urns,
leatherette booths, and trees.
Then you sweep, mop, do away
with all trace of yourself, and leave
by the kitchen door.
I have slept in chairs, danced with them,
washed their filthy wooden legs
with soapy ammonia. I have painted chairs,
and busted them. Wanted, loathed,
ignored, half broken toes on them.
Someone told me an idea is an egg.
Fish, human, robin, or emu–he didn’t say,
just that it’s perfect and self-contained. Then
it gets opened, let into the world. I think
a folding chair’s a bad, bad idea. Folding
chairs are more like songs. Canticles, sonatas,
even symphonies. Most certainly the blues.
I was listening to the Monty Alexander Trio cut of this piece, but couldn’t find their instrumental version on Youtube. This, however, is too fine not to play.